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Akinmuleya Alfred Poem
YET, HE DIED
We are here to mourn our friend,
Who led an ascetic life?
Shrewd, astute and virtuous as he was,
He died.
Upright as himself, second to none
His arduous engrossed incessant obscene
But these clandestine deeds
Are now covered with his closed eyes
For nobody his clay feet indeed saw.
So meritorious –
Yet as upright as he was,
He died.
We shall talk more of our friend
And the timorous terror of his name
That caused infants to rain down their pants;
When this name is forgotten by birds that sang it.
For as famous as he was,
He died.
AKINMULEYA A. ALFRED
©2018
Copyright © Akinmuleya Alfred | Year Posted 2019
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Akinmuleya Alfred Poem
THE JOYS OF OUR MOTHER
Before Eko learn how to pronounce his name,
Let him learn to brother his brothers
And the older brothers from broader brother too.
For this is the way of the soldier-ants
Who will never bid a bleeding brother by the border.
Right from 1914
When our mothers bled out tears from their pristine vagina,
Till the early sixties
When our big uncles
fought a viscous battle with the European battalions
To ensure our liberty;
We've been here tangoing.
And now, let the dance continue
And the music knows no stop.
For together, we drank the frowzy portion from Nigeria
When the 'Long-Noses' sell their language to us.
Oh! I'll keep calling my brother's name with it
And my brothers, mine.
The warm-fuzzies of drinking in this jorum
Shall be; when a load is to be carried,
The whole fingers lend in their strength.
The broom never sweep with a stick.
The soldier-ants never barricade with just a soldier
So, when I answer my brother's name
And he answers mine too,
Mother will nod from her grave
"These are my sons".
And our voice shall pierce through the desert wind
To take our message to gods who feed on children skull.
Copyright © Akinmuleya Alfred | Year Posted 2017
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